Page 51 of Ticket to the Stars: Part One

I… didn’t know why the thought bothered me so much.

“I don’t like agreeing with Priest—” Bishop paused, most likely so Priest could glare at him. “—but he’s right. It’s a different sound altogether, but if anything, I think the songs are catchier, if that makes sense? Having two contrasting voices really makes me want to sit back and just keep listening.”

My mouth remained shut. I agreed with them, but I didn’t want to admit it. I thought Black Sacrament would fall apart without Pope. Until Ramona called and had us move back in here, I’d thought we were pretty much done—and when she’d said we would have a new member, another singer, agirl, I’d all but thrown in the towel.

Maybe a part of me was upset at knowing we might actually pull this off. Maybe my loyalty to my brother wanted us to crash and burn and not succeed.

Bishop and Priest were going on about their favorites, but I stayed quiet. I thought Angel would be listening to them, but instead she stared at me and asked, “What do you think, Deacon?”

I met her blue eyes, hating the way something in me twisted when we locked stares. There were so many things I could’ve said, so many things I wanted to say, but as I gazed into her eyes, as I remembered how she’d blushed for Priest and how Bishop seemed to like her more than he let on…

I didn’t know. It was just too much. Everything was too much.

Too much change, too much of a different sound, too much pressure. Too much all at once and no one else seemed to feel it. Even though I was surrounded by three other people, I’d never felt more alone—and that was why I shook my head, stood up, and said, “I need a minute.” And then I walked away, down the hall and into my room, where I closed the door to separate myself from them.

This wasn’t Black Sacrament. This wasn’t our band. This was… something else.

I paced the length of my room, circling my drumming set and pacing the areas on the sides of my bed. I scowled to myself, my mood sour. Right when I thought I’d gotten used to how different everything was, how different everything would become once we actually started recording and touring with Angel, life took a swing at me and knocked me right back down.

I stopped pacing near my bed, and I pulled out my phone from my back pocket and went to my brother’s contact info. I wanted to call him. I hadn’t spoken to him in a while, not since this whole Angel business.

The last time I’d spoken to him, he’d wanted me to basically beg Ramona to help him get back in the label’s good graces. It wasn’t our idea to kick him out. That was the record label, trying to save face, and Ramona working with them while trying to manage the remnants of Black Sacrament.

Ramona wouldn’t answer his calls or his texts. She’d basically ghosted him, leaving him to fend for himself when it came to the media. I’d tried, for a while, but eventually it dawned on me that it was like trying to knock over a brick wall with nothing but my hands: impossible.

I almost texted Pope—almost. The only thing that stopped me was the knock on my door. I was seconds from saying something along the lines ofGo away, but whoever it was decided to walk in anyway. When I saw who it was, I frowned and tucked my phone into my pocket.

Of course, it was the one person I didn’t want to talk to right now, the one person I didn’t want to see… the one girl who, as far as I knew, never stepped foot in my room before today.

Angel walked in, gently closing the door behind her as her eyes flicked around the room to study it. The dark walls, painted such a dark gray they might as well have been black. The drumming set that was the same setup as my stage set. The unmade bed with black and gray sheets.

Yeah, it was a lot of dark colors, okay? I was a simple guy.

Angel seemed unaffected by my scowl, because she eventually landed her gaze on me and walked closer. She stopped when she stood two feet in front of me, holding her arms at her sides awkwardly. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice light.

Turning my back to her, I folded my arms over my chest and huffed, “Yeah, I just needed a minute, so why don’t you go running back to the others and keep talking about how much you all love the demos.” I realized I sounded upset, but that’s kind of because I was.

This was new territory, and I didn’t know how to best proceed. The routine I’d gotten used to in the last five years was shot to hell the moment Pope was forced out. The only reason we were still here was because we had a contract with the studio. We owed them one more album. This rebrand was all Ramona’s idea, to get things going again, to give us a way to keep going after that one album.

It sounded like Angel walked over to my bed, because I heard the telltale signs of the headboard creaking. I glanced over my shoulder, finding that she’d sat at the base, on the small area where the sheets weren’t so crumpled. Her legs dangled off the side. “It must be hard for you,” she said, “doing all this without your brother.”

I couldn’t look at her for too long. “You have no fucking idea,” I muttered. “It’s like they don’t give a shit about him anymore. Priest and Bishop are happy to move on with you, to try new things, but I—” I stopped myself.

My thoughts must’ve been written on my face, because Angel whispered, “You don’t. You want to walk away, don’t you?” The girl was too observant for her own good.

I heaved a sigh. “We’re contracted for one more album. One more. That’s it. Then there’s no need for Black Sacrament.”

“I didn’t know that.” Angel fiddled with her hands in her lap. “No one told me that before. Ramona said—”

“Ramona sugarcoated things for you, Angel,” I told her as I strolled over to her. I stood directly before her, much taller than her since she still sat on my bed. “You’re not the only one contracted for one more album. After that… I’m done.” The words felt final, now that they’d been said aloud. This whole time, I’d never spoken them out loud once.

Angel didn’t try to change my mind. All she said was, “Do the others know?”

My gaze fell to the floor between us. “No, they don’t, and I’d rather you not say anything to them.”

“I won’t.” She slipped off the bed, getting to her own two feet. She stood less than six inches away now—way too close, really—but when I lifted my gaze off the floor and brought it to her face, I found I couldn’t move.

She paralyzed me, and it wasn’t so terrible a sensation.

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